


My Rascal Davies

by bluegarters



Category: QI RPF
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Mistletoe, Yuletide 2011, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegarters/pseuds/bluegarters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas, and Stephen is faced with an epiphany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Rascal Davies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reason_says](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reason_says/gifts).



> Set directly after QI's Series E Christmas special on Empire. Alan did indeed win; he wore the turban mentioned; and the title was how Stephen described Alan at the end of the show.
> 
> (Obviously the rest of this is made up by me, and is sadly all lies.)

“Now that,” a voice says from behind him, “is the way to ring in Christmas.”

Stephen finishes pouring his glass of water without turning around. He would know that voice anywhere; the fact that it is currently coming from the doorway of his dressing room on his beloved quiz-show-with-a-difference is also the slightest bit of a give-away.

The door shuts, and he knows without looking that Alan will have leaned on it and crossed his arms, tipping his curly head back against the frame. Alan doesn’t always come back after the show to talk to Stephen, but he often does – and when he wins, the temptation to needle Stephen nearly always triumphs.

“Alan Davies wins again,” Alan says, and the glee in his voice makes Stephen hide a smile, even though his back is turned and Alan cannot see his face. “Take that, empires of the world.”

“The elephants are kind to you,” Stephen observes, and turns, raising his glass to take a cleansing sip of water.

Alan is leaning against the door, just as Stephen had predicted. He has perched the ridiculous turban back on top of his curls, and it sits at a rakish angle, making Alan look rather comical.

Alan grins. “I like the elephants.”

They stand like that for a few moments, friends sharing the easy camaraderie of the aftermath of a good show.

If Stephen finds his eyes tracing the curve of Alan’s chin, or the jaunt of his shoulder, or the lines of his mouth – well, he’s half-hidden behind his water-glass, and such thoughts are nothing new. And Alan hasn’t ever seemed to mind.

It isn’t just that Stephen finds Alan beautiful, although he does. It isn’t just that he wants to push his hand into Alan’s hair and tug at those luxuriant curls, although he does. It isn’t just that he wants to slide to his knees and make Alan lose that calm easy charm in one long shuddering gasp of lust – although he does. Thoughts like these are just that – fantasies.

The reality is much worse than that, as Stephen has only recently begun to realise – and perhaps only now realises fully, watching Alan’s mouth slowly turn up under that absurd headgear. For his are not merely fantasies of lust any longer. He delights in making Alan smile; he trawls his own capacious mind for facts and stories that might interest Alan; he finds excuses to be near Alan, beyond the confines of the show, a straight-jacket that brings Alan so near him and yet so far.

And Alan – that beautiful, maddening, infuriating, fascinating man – is beyond his reach.

He gradually becomes aware that Alan is watching him, even as he watches Alan. The half-smile on Alan’s face has grown, into that calm, soft, amused – and yet somehow almost shy – smile that is so quintessentially Alan’s.

“Your elves have been busy,” Alan says.

Stephen wrenches his thoughts to the matter at hand with an effort. “Yes, I suppose they have,” he says, drawing his brows down into a question.

Alan unfolds his arms, and takes a step towards him. “In your dressing room, no less.” He points upward.

Instinctively, Stephen looks up.

Mistletoe winks down at him.

He keeps his eyes on it for a long moment, feeling suddenly weary. He is not as young as he used to be, and it is Christmas, and Alan’s teasing no longer seems quite as fond. Almost cruel, in fact – but perhaps that is unfair; Alan is not to know that Stephen’s feelings towards him are all in a whirl, from lust to fondness to affection to something which Stephen cannot – will not – name.

Stephen breathes in, summons his wit for an appropriate reply. He looks back down, away from the taunting white berries.

With the skill of a cat, Alan has stepped nearer.

This has gone too far. Stephen opens his mouth to make a remark to defuse the situation…

…and Alan, quick as a wink, brings a finger up to stop him.

Alan’s finger is warm against his lips, and Stephen is acutely aware that if he darted his tongue out, he could taste Alan’s skin. He breathes in through his still-open mouth, suppressing a wince when he hears the incipient raggedness in his breath. Whatever Alan is playing at, there is teasing, and then there is the absolute proof that yes, Stephen Fry does indeed fancy you.

“I wonder,” Alan says – and were his eyes always this dark, or is just the closeness that has led Stephen to notice them? – “what they thought you needed it for?”

Stephen cannot answer without dislodging Alan’s finger.

“Or perhaps,” Alan says – and the corners of his mouth turn up, and Stephen feels a sudden wild hope – “they thought _I_ needed it.”

And then – oh frabjous day! – Alan is letting his finger slip from Stephen’s lip, and is stepping up against Stephen’s body, and is – at last, at long long last – bringing his mouth, still smiling, down on Stephen’s own.

The kiss, which starts chaste, does not remain that way for long. Stephen has dreamed too long of this – and, wonder of wonders, apparently so has Alan, if the impatient way he shoves at Stephen’s suit jacket and licks into Stephen’s mouth are to believed. Alan’s turban falls unnoticed to the floor, and Stephen’s jacket follows.

Finally, reluctantly, Stephen pulls away, just far enough that his eyes can focus. “I don’t understand.”

Alan laughs at that, his kiss-swollen mouth stretching around his laughter. “You and your need for knowledge.”

Stephen runs a finger along Alan’s hipbone, just to watch the way Alan swallows. “What changed?”

Alan’s smile changes, somehow, and there’s something in his eyes Stephen can’t quite name. “You fell in love with me, you idiot.”

Stephen stares at him.

Alan’s smile grows, and Stephen’s heart tries to turn over. “What do you think I’m going to say? ‘It’s Christmas, so I took pity on you?’ I know what I’m doing. I’m not as stupid – or not quite as stupid – as you think.”

“What _are_ you doing?” Stephen manages. It’s not quite as eloquent as he’d like, but he has just been kissed into incoherence by Alan Davies, after all.

“I rather think,” Alan says, doing a passable imitation of a more-coherent Stephen, “that I’m falling in love with you, old bean.”

“Well,” Stephen says, after a long moment in which the universe did not do such a silly thing as move on its axis, but may have deigned to do a small dance, “…” And finds he has run out of words.

Alan smiles, and kisses him again. “It’s all right,” he says against Stephen’s mouth. “Words can come later.”

Indeed they will, if Stephen has anything to say about it.

But in the meantime, it’s the Christmas season, and Stephen has a very willing armful of Alan Davies, and Alan is currently doing something quite interesting with his tongue.

Time to investigate.


End file.
